


Smolder

by EAU1636



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, First Kiss, Hiding, M/M, Minor Injuries, Post-Episode: s02e04 Neverland, Post-Episode: s03e01 Ride, References to Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24893908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAU1636/pseuds/EAU1636
Summary: Morse and Jakes in an alley hiding from the cops, despite being cops.  Jakes gets to be the human disaster in this one.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 20
Kudos: 62





	Smolder

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Transit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24553576) by [Robin_Fai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Fai/pseuds/Robin_Fai). 



> Couldn't resist writing my first Jarse fic. I read Robin_Fai's Morse and Jakes in an alley fic and liked it so much I wanted to write one too.
> 
> Then I was listening to Riot Van and thought of Jakes and Morse during this bit, despite them being cops.  
> "And please just stop talking  
> 'Cause they won't find us if you do  
> Oh, those silly boys in blue  
> Well, they won't catch me and you"
> 
> So, wrote a fic about it.

Morse took another swig from his pint and looked across the room. Jakes was still hunched over in his seat at the bar, his arms crossed and head hanging down. He wondered how Jakes was still upright at this point, the way he’d been putting drinks away. 

After staying late to wrap up some paperwork Strange had convinced Morse to join him at the pub for a round. They’d walked in to see Jakes sitting alone at the bar, a cigarette in one hand and a pint in the other. He’d left work an hour before they had and was clearly already a few drinks in. His expression was far from welcoming, but Strange was all warm friendliness as usual and seemed not to notice. Morse wished he could leave, but it was too late now. He’d have to endure one drink before making his excuses and his escape. 

Strange insisted that the three of them sit at a table together and bought the first round. They sat for an hour or so as Strange did his best to make conversation while Morse stared down into his glass and Jakes glowered at him from across the table, sending cigarette smoke wafting his way. 

This was how it had been, ever since Morse had come back a month ago. Jakes seemed to positively hate him now, in a way that sent Morse’s nerves reverberating every time he caught the other’s steely glare.

It wasn’t as though they’d ever been friends. Something about Morse just seemed to rub Peter the wrong way from the start. Nothing unusual in that, people had an almost instant aversion to him often enough. He’d told himself it was better that way, safer to know that Jakes despised him. Because there was no denying that Jakes had gotten under his skin. The more aloof and antagonistic Jakes was toward him, the more Morse couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

A few times he had stupidly thought he’d seen a look in the other man’s eye, a glimpse of something other than dislike, but that of course had only been his imagination. There had been bad blood between them from the first, even if it only really flowed one way. And things might have just gone on that way, with Jakes finding Morse’s very existence annoying and Morse finding his confusing feelings for Jakes more annoying still. 

But then Blenheim Vale had sprung up like the long shadow of a nightmare, the past terrors twisting themselves like vines around their ankles, pulling them down into its wretched depths. 

During those long nights in prison Morse had paid penance as his mind ran again and again over his mistakes like a rosary of wrongs. He thought of Thursday, of his own stupidity and incompetence, and of Jakes. He heard again Jakes’ quick intake of breath as those long buried memories flooded back, as though he might drown in the undertow. He saw his face flinch with remembered anguish, the pain still sharp as a blade. Morse thought of how he’d left Jakes there, alone, of how he would probably never see him again. On those nights when he heard boots in the corridor and a key twisting in the lock, when he closed his eyes against the pain and suffocating fear that made regular visits to his cell, some part of him knew he deserved it. 

And then suddenly he’d gone from being a prisoner back to being a person. Though not the same person who’d gone in. Morse knew he couldn’t go back to Cowley. They were better off without him, that was clear, their silence told him all he needed to know. So he’d tried to go somewhere else, to become someone else. But death followed him all the same, as though he’d become a sort of portent for tragedy. It was all still there, waiting at the edge of his bed when he tried to sleep, all the darkness he’d tried to leave behind.

What kept him awake in the lake house most nights wasn’t loneliness or regret, but anger. That it had all been swept under the rug, as though the past were so much dust, as if it weren’t still clinging to all of them. And what must it have been like for Jakes to see it all hushed up and glossed over? Tossing and turning in sheets wet with sweat, he told himself he was burning with rage over what had been done to Jakes. But that was only half the truth. Morse was burning to see him again, haunted by the searing glow of a cigarette beneath those smoldering eyes.

Eventually he’d gone back to Oxford, the pull of old ties and fresh wrongs too beckoning to resist. He’d hoped maybe things could go back to the way they had been, that maybe there would be a better tomorrow. He had even hoped that there could be something edging on friendship between him and Jakes, a connection forged from understanding.

But Jakes had changed. No longer just taunting, now Morse couldn’t mistake the hate in his eyes. And it wasn’t just aimed at him, though he seemed to bear the brunt of it. Ever since Blenheim Vale, Strange told Morse later, Jakes had been different. He’d taken to hard drinking, even by Morse’s standards. Most mornings he showed up visibly hungover, with deep bags beneath his eyes and a chip on his shoulder, still reeking of booze. His short fuse had led him to go off on a couple of suspects, earning him a reprimand from Bright. Most of the lads at the station did their best to avoid him now, the old bawdy banter and friendly allegiances forgotten. Even Thursday seemed unable to talk Jakes down from the ledge they could all see him dangling from. Most of the others seemed to think it best to just look away.

Morse alone knew what must be ripping Jakes apart. He wanted nothing more than to give him something, anything, to lessen his pain. But how could he, when Jakes so clearly despised him? Morse knew Jakes probably blamed him for knowing what he himself wanted to forget.

And so tonight they’d sat together in the pub, with Jakes’ silent recriminations circling the table like vultures, and Strange smiling and prattling on about football and office gossip. 

“Well, I’d best be heading home, work in the morning,” Strange had finally conceded. “Let me drop you by yours on my way,” he offered to Jakes.

“S’alright. I’m stayin,” Jakes replied, getting up to order another drink, despite already being three sheets to the wind.

He stumbled a bit and Strange grabbed onto his elbow to steady him. “It’s late matey, why not go home and sleep it off?”

“Don't need a fuckin nursemaid, matey,” Jakes snarled the word with mocking contempt, tugging his arm away.

Strange sighed as he watched Jakes head toward the bar. He knew well enough it was useless to argue with an angry drunk.

He turned to Morse. “Want a lift?”

“No. I think I’ll stay on a bit.”

“Suit yourself. See you in the morning. I’d stay away from him,” he said, motioning to Jakes at the bar. “He’s in a right temper tonight.”

Morse nodded. 

He’d been sitting there ever since, trying to keep an eye on Jakes without riling him up, unwilling to leave him alone but afraid to approach him.

Jakes hadn’t moved from the bar, knocking drinks back one after another. Morse wasn’t even sure if Jakes knew he was still there.

Maybe he should leave. Maybe Jakes was determined to stay until he left. He just didn’t want to leave him here, the way he’d left him that night months before.

Just then a couple of burly blokes came in and sat near Jakes at the bar. Despite just having arrived, they were already loud and belligerent. Even from across the room Morse could hear them plainly. Something in one of the voices sent a hollow shiver down his spine. He grew suddenly cold, his palms sweaty. He scarcely dared to move, could hardly breathe. 

Wainwright. When he’d gone to the prison to investigate the death of George Aldridge, little had he known that the guard with cruel eyes who’d looked at him with such malice would soon enough be guarding him. And now here he was, risen up from a nightmare, real as life and just across the room.

Morse was afraid to look behind him. He couldn’t leave. He was just as trapped as he’d been in that tiny cell. 

He couldn’t help it, he glanced quickly over his shoulder. Just his luck that at the same moment Wainwright looked his way. Morse spun back around, hoping maybe the guard hadn’t recognized him.

Then Morse heard Wainwright say, loud enough for the whole pub to hear, “That little shit over there was one of mine. Thought he was better than me when he came in, didn’t think so when I had him on his knees cryin though, did he? The little fucker’s still too afraid to look me in the eye, isn’t he?” He laughed heartily.

And then, with speed that should not have been possible in his state, Jakes was practically on top of the man. “What the fuck did you just say, you bastard?” 

By the time Morse could rise from the table, Jakes’ fist was raised. As Morse ran over, Peter punched Wainwright squarely in the nose. 

Blood poured down the man’s face as he lunged for Jakes. 

“You little prick! You’re gonna pay for that!” Wainwright’s friend shouted. He grabbed Jakes by the collar and as he pulled him forward, Jakes slammed his pint down on the bar, shattering the glass. He held up the jagged edge that remained and pressed it against the man’s neck. Blood dripped from Peter’s hand where the glass had sliced through the skin.

“Let him go,” Morse said, approaching slowly and trying to keep his voice steady. “We need to go. Put the glass down and let’s go.”

“I’m calling the police,” The bartender said, sounding more annoyed than alarmed and heading for the phone.

Morse was tempted to say that they _were_ the bloody police, but how could he? Jakes was in enough trouble at work as it was. He was filled with a sickly panic, but he had to get Jakes out of there.

“Look at me,” Morse said, moving fractionally closer. “Look at me, Peter. We need to go. Now.”

Jakes met his eyes. For a long moment it was as though everything had stopped, as though the only thing that existed was the other’s gaze. Then Jakes brought his arm down and dropped the glass onto the floor. 

Wainwright made to grab for Jakes, but Morse moved between them and held his hand out. “Keep your goddamn hands off him!” 

He took hold of Jakes’ arm and steered him out of the pub as the two men continued shouting threats behind them. Morse heard sirens approaching.

“What the hell were you thinking? You can’t just assault someone, you’re supposed to be an officer of the law.” 

“He bloody well had it comin! Am I supposed to just sit there?” Jakes shouted.

Morse shook his head and looked around for a place they could stay out of sight. He marched Jakes a few more paces and then turned into an alley. There was a dark doorway, the back entrance of some shop, and Morse shoved Jakes into it, pushing him up against the doorframe. He took off his jacket and tried to wrap it around Jakes’ bleeding hand.

“Leave it!” Jakes shouted, pulling his hand away and making a move back into the alley.

“Be quiet!” Morse hissed, raising his hands to press Jakes’ shoulders back against the door. “Do you want them finding you? You’ll lose your job.”

“Like you fucking care!” Jakes shouted. “It’s no more than I deserve and you know it.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You need to let me wrap your hand and hold it up to stop the bleeding,” Morse whispered.

“I left you and Thursday alone that night while I sat and cried in the pub. I’m a coward. Just like when I was a kid. I only thought about saving my own skin.” 

Morse was glad that the adrenaline had at least seemed to sober Jakes up a bit. 

“That isn’t what happened, no one blames you.”

“I blame me! Don’t you get it? Thursday almost died. You ended up in prison. Don’t you think I know what that must have been like? It was all I could think about. And to hear that bastard talk about it that way? I did that to you. I sent you there.”

“There was nothing you could have done. It wasn’t your fault, any of it. And it’s over now.”

“It’s never over. You and I both know that.”

Morse looked at him, unable to deny it.

“When you got out and you didn’t come back, I thought maybe you were better off, maybe you couldn’t stand to see me,” Jakes grew quieter, talking more to himself than Morse. “Then when you did come back I thought I’d finally get what was coming to me. I could finally stop hiding and just own up to it. But you acted like nothing had happened, like you didn’t even hate me,” his voice raised again, furious, nearly shouting. “Why? Why the hell don’t you hate me, Morse? I’ve tried so hard to get you to fucking hate me!”

“Peter, if you don’t shut up they’re going to find us!” Morse’s voice was a frantic whisper.

“Why don’t you shut me up then?” Jakes shouted, his eyes aflame.

Morse could hear the shuffling of footsteps not far off. He reached to grab the arm of Jakes’ injured hand and press it upright against the door, while his other hand clamped down over Peter’s mouth. 

For a moment the flash in Peter’s eyes made Morse wonder if Peter was going to fight him off, to hit him even. Still, he couldn’t look away.

And then Peter’s eyes filled with tears. He reached up with his free hand and grabbed hold of Morse’s wrist. But he didn’t pry his hand off of his mouth, he just held on. 

Morse slowly moved his hand from Peter’s lips, his fingers drifting down Peter’s face. And all the while Peter held tight to him. 

Then Peter slid his hand down Morse’s palm, until their fingers were woven together. Morse’s eyes never left his. The street was silent now, apart from their heavy breath and pounding hearts.

Peter’s hand broke away and reached for Morse, slid around his neck and pulled him roughly into a kiss. Morse leaned into him, put his hand up to Peter’s face, desire blazing hungry and hot inside him.

God, how he wanted this, Peter’s lips firm against his, his hands in his hair, their bodies pressed together. 

But he made himself pull away, to look Peter in the eye again. He couldn’t take advantage like this, Peter wasn’t sober, wasn’t himself, he might regret it in the morning.

“We should get you home. You need this cut cleaned up.”

Peter looked at him and nodded, silently. Morse wrapped his hand once again in the jacket and then held his arm as Peter leaned against him, stumbling, while they walked the long, deserted streets to Peter’s flat.

As they reached Peter’s door, Morse let go of his arm. Peter unlocked the door and left it open behind him, so Morse followed him in. 

Peter sat on the sofa, dazed and weary.

“Do you have any bandages?” Morse asked.

“Bathroom cupboard.”

Morse went to the bathroom and fetched the bandages and a wet cloth. Peter reached his arm out and Morse held it tenderly as he did his best to gently wipe the blood from Peter’s hand and wrap the cut in bandages. Peter’s eyes stayed glued to the floor.

When he finished, Peter looked up at him, tired and defeated. “Have I fucked this up?”

“No,” Morse shook his head. “I never knew... I mean, I’ve wanted this, you don’t know how much. I just never thought...”

“Guess you’re not so smart after all,” Peter said, grinning. 

Morse grinned right back. “Guess not.”

Peter slumped back against the couch. 

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” Morse said.

“Mmm,” Peter mumbled, half asleep already.

Morse went and filled a glass of water. He set it on the table beside Peter and stood watching him sleep. He grabbed a blanket from a chair and laid it over him, then checked to make sure Peter’s alarm was set for work in the morning. Then he quietly slipped out of the flat, closing the door behind him.

There was a chill in the night air and he’d left his bloodied jacket at the flat, but it didn’t matter, thoughts of Peter were all the warmth he needed on the long walk home.


End file.
